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Coyote – Mitch Green

The turnpike of west bowed to the city shimmer. An escort icon in ornamental estrangement contested the chivalry of desire. A whisper in a windless wood bellowed aloud to the deaf. Parking breaks bleeding the asphalt. The yellow strip chalked in brick red exhaust. A body adorned the open blank mileage of night – belly and breast down to our virgin eye. The opening cast of exposure decomposing the edible noir of suspicion. A sobbing wail claws at the silent twinkling nothing. A bent in bumper, fragmented shrapnel of glass and ribbon. Point south the rearview, and you see the cacti and coyotes roosting along edgy dunes sprouted to cast shadows. We wait out the buzzards, the hawks and wolves that are known to creep salaciously in cold blood. The lonesome fear reels inside like icy daggers, as the fantasizing man rolls the 140 pound dead weight idol into a sleeping bag.

Landscape scenic shot of the car and the bagged body, hauled stressfully. This is a slow and awkward struggle. The red hue blotching the lot – seizing natural color. Body in trunk, the frantic man, fumbles behind the wheel and chugs the murderous hunk from the scene. Residue of red sweats to black.

The cacti, the coyotes, the buzzards, and hawks all dash and bolt far from the wheels of this death machine. Into the eons, out beyond the pale who flops soundly with each jolt, rocking knots into the trunk. Like a meteor through the galaxy, the sputtering machine caught a set of red and blue sirens breaking sight behind. The vomit induced toxicity knuckled him to the gut, and he could hardly breathe. The hit and run captive homicide was slowly decaying inside polyester.

Hindsight dread deepened root around his spine, spearing bolts of electric wire to rattle bone. Quaking and immobile, the rubber rolling ankles trudged close. White knuckled, and shrink wrapped – plaid plagued soul of guilt. Hysterical hangover of helix vision, burning sight. The electrodes of the mindscape have abandoned all sake of morality. In troves the internal war upon self now underwater to smother. The clicking tongues spoke in a language not known to common dialogue. Deaf disposition now a suspicious entity on the side of highway 95 in the pith of night with a body in back.

A thump popped like tin, and the trunk creaked open. Alive, she’s alive. If skin could crawl, his anatomical dearest would be on auction. Scuffing dirt and gravel, he bolted to the back, flinging open the dinged trunk door. There wadded in the black human sized napkin of camping gear was the pink and red stillness of the breathless.

The longer he hovered the more he fantasized. The longer he fantasized, the more he became an adolescent boy again, reflecting on the first time he had seen an unclothed girl. The printed papers, the digital previews on 50” screens, the brothel on 5th street, and his routine call girls in shoddy motel rooms off of route 76. Appalled by the touch of his hand on her lukewarm cheek. But even more disgusted by the inhumanity he found within himself; he knew not the man he had become.

Mitch Green founded Rad Press Publishing in September of 2016. He is an avid artist in visual design and literature. Published in various literary journals and magazines: The Literary Yard. The Penmen Review. Vimfire Magazine – Mitch aims to seize the narrow line between all artistic mediums.

A few of his known poetic titles are: “Flesh Phoenix” “Monsters” “The Wolves Howled”.